By the time you're reading this groovy train, the authors will be unavailable for comment, editorial inquires or follow-up questions.

Elvis has left the building.

For the uninitiated first-years (or second-years) please follow groovy train instructions carefully. All electronic equipment including the use of cellular phones must be discontinued at this point. Palm VII usage should be suspended permanently.

Step One ("we can have lots of fun"): This issue bites the style of FM back-the-day. That's FM, as it were. Enter the time-warp.

Step Two ("there's so much we can do"): With this issue we'd like salute Andy Warhol, not the millennium. And ourselves as well. Grain of salt, okay?

Step Three ("it's just you and me"): Late submissions will not be marked down. Study less, we're all this together.

Step Four ("I can give you more"): Big pictures make magazines longer. Laminate or recycle this.

Step Five ("don't you know the time is right?"): This is Groovy Train. Dig it.

[This section of Groovy Train is officially dedicated to the Fifteen Minutes sweatpants that magazine staffers now own. Our asses look great, the material is totally cushy and the athletic lettering along the left leg--left for political reasons, of course--gives us that authentic look. Not unlike J. Crew the "distressed" aesthetic. Athletica as erotica.]

Choo Choo! Groovy Train pulls out of the station the station. Holy Shit, Ringo Starr is the goddamn conductor. Nice earring.

Back-in-the-day, as one is wont to say, we had CB jackets with Freaky Freazies inside. No need for smart wool jackets or canvas my-first-briefcases. We'd wrap a sheet of strawberry Fruit Roll Up around our index finger, then lick. Eeew. Anna stuck a tic tac up her nose. (The school nurse used tweezers to dislodge the one-calorie mint.)

During this holiday season, we at FM urge you all to come together and brew holiday cheer. Draw on everything you've got to kindle the spirit even if means whistling the 1984 Band-Aid song "Do They Know It's Christmas? (Feed the World)." Put your hands to your ears like you're holding studio-quality headphones. Close your eyes. Now sway. Who are you? You're Simon LeBon! And by your side, Euro powerhouses: Paul Young ("Everytime you go away, you take a piece of me with you. . ."), Bono, George Michael, Boy George. It's not for Ethiopia--it's for your cold, rotten Harvard heart. Do it baby.

Enter the aforementioned time warp. Hello, Ghost of FM Past.

[This flashback is dedicated to FM's full-color Holiday Gift Guide.]

Once upon a time in the 1970s, a question arose among the Bee Gee faithful: What's grooving at Harvard? A guy named James J. Cramer '77 (then hair-famous; now street.com smart) and Crimson pal Steve A. Ballmer '77 (then a turkey shoot victim; now a Microsoft billionaire) decided to start a Crimson magazine. They named it What Is To Be Done, a shout out to communism, a form of socio-political organization, that Mr. Cramer liked a lot. We hear he runs his hedge fund like a good Leninist. Once upon a time, in the late 1990s, the magazine, renamed Fifteen Minutes (that's the written-out form of F.M.), experimented with the esoteric. We've prepared a historically faithful selection of stories from a ratty old issue we found in the office (Dec. 5, 1996): "Hicks at Harvard," "Cheap Booze: The Lush's Guide to Local Liquor Stores," "It's Not Halloween, Now Give Me Candy"

No joke.

Then came our mentors, the FM five. Five like Guns n' Roses. Number five alive. Ian, Anne, Matty, Ivy (and Pooja). The year was 1997 and the font was Bazooka.

One night, Ivy wore a glittery tank (Helmut Lang) with only a single shoulder strap (asymmetrical). Sort of like Andre the Giant when he was a bad guy, only a lot hotter. A lot.

Next came T.J. and Drake, our bosses. You may remember them. T.J. wore Sambas and grumbled a lot. Drake could produce an Alec Baldwin five o'clock shadow anytime he wanted. He had a girlfriend who liked salads and literature. Bennettoids have been spotted spawning in the Leverett Dining Hall. All points bulletin for pearls girls with posture.

Drake punched JP for the Spee Club. JP punched Aaron for the Spee Club. Drake put up T.J. for the Signet Society. Drake put up Alicia for the Signet Society.

Time passed. There was a scrutiny about losing virginity, watching television, Kiss 107.9 and smoking cigarettes. Times were hard.

When it came time for the ceremonial switch-over dinner, sentimental T.J. presented us with a cardboard box and Drake just didn't show up. Feel the love!

End flashback.

[The following section is dedicated to FM's Comp Team Rotation System.TM]

Enter post-modernity, FM 1999. New cast members: Anna and Mica. Mica says, "I want to be in Groovy Train." (Her editorial trademark is using the Notepad application.)

Anna says to Mica, "You have more chutzpah than I do." (Anna, like the rest of the staff, hails from the New York Metropolitan Area.)

And for the record, FM does not endorse final clubs, societies of arts and letters, high-falutin' literary magazines or travel guides despite what our resumes may say.

[The next section of Groovy Train is dedicated to FM's "Euro Issue."]

Speaking of things old and new, we've compiled a list. We're over Diego at the Loft and sticky pomade in Aaron's hair. We're over the construction of gender and other construction work including the Big Crane. We're over diaper bags and other ugly accessories including earrings. We're over Cosmopolitan martinis, tini bar and teeny tiny tankinis. We're over Diesel jeans and, more generally, conspicuous consumption. We're over Terry E. E. Chang despite her amazing contributions to the Groovy Train of yore. We're over the Shoot and moments of crisis, generally speaking. We're over intercom abuse by Crimson geeks. Over MP3s. Over the boy in section (kinda). Over mood swings and swing dancing. Totally over crummy paper (feel this crap!) E-mail. Halo (NYC). Over boyfriends. And name-dropping. We're over our theses (before they've even started). Extra-long twin beds. Tealuxe. Fellowships. E-anythings. Allston Burr Senior Tutors. Smoking. Anxiety-induced vomiting and dream sequences. Aaron has discovered the plain front; he's over pleats. Over the learner's permit. Cafe Pamplona? Pretty much over that. Over the affordable Audi TT. Over the hill?

For every pooh-pooh there's a hip, hip hooray. We're not over ourselves or a magazine devoted to the same. Can't stop eating cookies (Entenmann's) and donuts. We're not over Patrick Ewing who deserves his gigantic salary. We'll never, ever be over Cherry Coke or V8 which is similar to ketchup which we also can't get over. Won't ever forget 4224. Not over Nina Yuen, Junior Mints and other small blessings. Still trying to get over what's hip, what's now, what's on the street. Nail biting and teeth grinding--not over it (but working on it). Not over that Gossip Guy photo. Not over Toto. Not over Ivy n' Matty. Can't get over the affected exclamation, "Amazing." Addicted to lip balms, try as we might. Not over illegal drug use. Or girlfriends. Not over modesty. Not over Bob Slate's or Bob Pollard. Family: not over the concept. Anna's not over her dog or the "hot Anna" photo we didn't run on page 28. Mica: not over yellow. Not over 11 X 17. Can't move beyond baths. Also not over wool. Not over Catcher in the Rye. Not over the Midwest, nope!

[The final installment of Groovy Train is made possible by the Four Figure Closeout and Viewers Like You.]

Choo Choo, we're there. All passengers must exit the train. Please look around to make sure you have all your personal belongings.

Happy Holidays and thank you for riding FM's Groovy Train.